


Just Enough

by one_black_coffee



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, Mild Language, and bill, quote fic?, stanley loves his birds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-14 23:21:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29304156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/one_black_coffee/pseuds/one_black_coffee
Summary: "At the bottom of every frozen heart is a drop or two of love-- just enough to feed the birds"Stan watched the world fall asleep around him while a new world woke up and began to perform its haunting dances. He stared out, with glazed over eyes, at the broken shards of water that still managed to mend after the wind ripped through them. He watched and he watched, all too aware of the thoughts creeping into his mind and all too disconnected from anything in his prescribed reality to really care.Bill watched Stan.
Relationships: Bill Denbrough/Stanley Uris
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	Just Enough

_ “At the bottom of every frozen heart there is a drop or two of love-- just enough to feed the birds” _

The two sat, side by side, right on the edge of the water.

The quarry was nearly silent at night. Ripples across the water from the night wind, the moon, dancing a silent waltz with her impossibly far off star companions, caught on each tiny ripple. Trees swayed back and forth along with flowers and grasses that were spurting back up in the Spring awakening--- all seemingly caught up in the same beautifully starved melody the moon and stars heard so many miles away.

Stan and Bill were caught up in no such melody.

Neither had spoken in what seemed like ages. When Bill had stuttered out the last of their exchanges--- “We’re the 0-o-only ones le-left, Stanny”--- the sun had still been winding down in a brilliant show of oranges and pinks, the little robins and chick-a-dees had still been hopping around, looking for last bits of food or nest material on the earth. Stan acknowledged Bill’s words with nothing more than a slow blink out towards the sky.

They sat in stiff, but not all that uncomfortable, silence. Stan watched the world fall asleep around him while a new world woke up and began to perform its haunting dances. He stared out, with glazed over eyes, at the broken shards of water that still managed to mend after the wind ripped through them. He watched and he watched, all too aware of the thoughts creeping into his mind and all too disconnected from anything in his prescribed reality to really care.

Bill watched Stan.

Bill watched Stan slip away from him for the millionth and some time in their friendship. He knew that far off, dazed, pained look of Stan’s all too well. During the day, when the others were around and reality was painted soft yellow, those looks were less painful to watch come across Stan’s face. During the day, Stan had the sense and presence of mind to at least try to hide those looks. At night, when only he and Bill were left, and the world shifted into a pallet of silvers and blues, Stan dropped his facade even more.

So Bill watched Stan. Watched him half heartedly shiver as the wind scurried up their unclothed arms, watched him brush at a curl that fell into his eyes before letting his hand drift back to the ground to support him. Bill even permitted himself to admire the way the moonlight bounced around in Stan’s eyes and washed his soft face---  _ not all sharp and angular like Richie’s is getting. Just Soft. Just Stan _ \--- in a sort of sickly pale that would only look terrible on anyone else. On Stan it looked almost natural.

_ Ethereal _ , Bill would think to himself.

While Bill took in everything there he could take of the boy next to him and Stan took in as little of the world around him as he could take, they maintained a mild distance between them. 

Stan would call it “safe”. Bill would call it “lousy”.

Regardless of their personal opinions, the space stayed. It was small enough for Bill to feel the slight warmth of the body beside him but large enough for Stan to convince himself he didn’t feel the warmth of the body beside him. Both leaning back on their bent palms--- Stan with his knees pulled half way to his chest and Bill with his legs stretched out in front of him--- they passed the time.

Bill enjoyed their time. He hated the pain he knew Stan felt but he couldn’t help the selfish love he felt when Stan chose to let down his guard with  _ Bill _ . While the silence and coldness Stan preserved made Bill feel sick with worry, the sheer fact that Stan allowed Bill near him during this made his head spin.

Stan couldn’t remember feeling much of anything during these times. And “these times” happened a fair amount. The Losers would spend the afternoon down at the quarry and eventually break off into groups--- Eddie and Richie heading to the Tozier residence, Bev with Ben walking her home, Mike biking in the opposite direction to his farm, and Stan and Bill left alone to sit on the dirt banks.

However, that particular night--- with the dancing moon and stars, the sun’s show of colors--- was stiflingly different.

Most nights, Stan and Bill kept their silence throughout the night until one of the two wordlessly stood and offered their hand to the other, a request to ride back home for the night that would be unquestioningly obeyed. That night, though, neither made any move despite the ticking of Stan’s little watch.

The unyielding space between their hands and arms felt warmer and more malleable--- when it had once been a sheet of molded metal, then it felt like something Bill could shape with his bare hands, if Stan allowed.

And Bill, being the romantic of the two, decided to take the opportunity. He had no intentions of truly disturbing Stan’s trance, afraid of what the consequences might be, but was simply too tired of Stan shouldering the weight of his issues himself. And Stan was simply too tired of shouldering the weight of his issues himself to refuse the open invitation that was Bill sliding two of his fingers against Stan’s.

For a moment, Bill didn’t move any more. He kept his hand positioned against Stan’s but stayed still, waiting for Stan to push away and offer a hand to pull Bill to his feet then release. Stan made no such movements and Bill continued to press his fingers against Stan’s until their hands were intertwined between them, shrouded in the safety of the night sky.

Bill relished in the feeling of the other boy’s soft skin pressed against his own in such an innocent, childish way that he hadn’t had the pleasure of experiencing in years.

Stan dreaded the very idea of letting his mind slip far enough into the thought of Bill’s wonderfully comforting hand holding his own.

So when Bill shifted the tiniest bit closer to Stan and whispered, “Do you w-want to talk, Stanny?”, Stan didn’t answer. And when Bill tried again, pressing closer--- their shoulders just barely brushing, making Stan shiver involuntarily--- Stan continued to stare ahead of them at the moon and stars.

“W-we don’t  _ h-h-have _ to talk if you don’t w-wanna,” Bill said.

Stan still didn’t reply.

But Bill knew Stan. He knew the difference between Stan being broody, Stan being Stan, Stan needing his space, and Stan needing Bill. “Do you w-want me to tell you a s-s-story?” He offered, hoping a story would manage some sort of response. Bill was always good with his words; Stan had told him so on multiple occasions.

Stan nodded.

And Bill began his story.

The distraction of Bill’s unwavering voice sent Stan stumbling back into reality. Quickly, the unnerving calm of the night was replaced by the anxiety-ridden essence of Stan’s day time and Stan was left floundering. Usually, he was already in Day Mode when The Losers were around so there was no need to change between his two realities; the sudden shift in his world left him reeling, forced to lean over and cling to Bill like the life line he was.

Bill caught him and led him back until they were both pressed flat against the ground, shoulder to shoulder, looking up at the sky as Bill carried on with his tale. Stan listened as best he could, though the growing knot in his throat and his tightening grip on Bill’s hand made it difficult.

“It’s o-okay, Stan,” Bill interrupted himself, “J-just think about y-y-your birds.” He squeezed Stan’s hand lightly and squirmed closer still so that there was hardly an inch of space between them. And if he began to throw in random names of birds about which he’d heard Stan ramble just to squeeze the weakest smile out of Stan, neither mentioned it.

Stan closed his eyes, letting himself be taken away with Bill’s words and Bill’s touch. The knot that climbed its way up his throat and threatened to burst out through tears and unrelenting sobs never quite stopped, but Stan had no doubt Bill was the only reason it didn’t pop.

It wasn’t until Bill stopped talking and turned his head to look at Stan that Stan drifted back down to Earth. Stan turned his head to look at Bill.

“Did ya’ l-like it?” Bill asked.

Stan smiled and nodded. “I always do, Billy.”

That pleased Bill. He turned back to studying the sky for some time. Neither of them spoke during that time. Stan, too afraid to break the peace and Bill, too unsure of how to fix whatever it was that was wrong.

“I’m proud of you, Stanny.”

“...Please don’t, Bill.”

So Bill didn’t. He went quiet again, listening to Stan’s uneven breathing and the rustle of the wind in the woods.

Stan spoke next. “...I’m… I’m proud of you too, Billy.” He wasn’t entirely sure why he said it, but it was said and there was never enough time to regret anything he said when he was with Bill.

“Thank you,” Bill said. Then he turned on his side--- making sure to keep Stan’s hand wrapped in his--- “That m-means a lot-t. You’re th-the brave-est person I know, Stanley.”

Stan sighed lightly, more of a hopeless attempt at shoving away the tears that were threatening to spill than any real annoyance. “No I’m not.”

“Are too.”

“Am not.”

“Are too--”

“Am not!” He couldn’t help the tinge of exasperation that slipped into his words. Bill’s opinion meant the world to Stan but he was in no state to have his feelings toyed with. He didn’t want to look at Bill, not when the first of what he was sure would be many tears started to streak down his cheeks.

Bill had an amendment to make. Previously he had thought of the silver of the moonlight catching on Stan’s face as something ethereal. Now, truly seeing the silver making tracks down his face in wet, hungry lines, Bill only saw the remains of his best friend and hated it.

“...You want t-to hear a q-q-quote I heard?”

Puzzled, Stan flicked his eyes over to Bill. “Okay.”

“ _ At the bottom of every frozen heart is a drop or two of love-- just enough to feed the birds. _ ” He’d recited that quote so many times since he’d first heard it, wanting to tell it to Stan and not ruin it with his stutter. The quote was something so perfectly Stan, it seemed only right to Bill that it be kept in pristine shape every time it was said out loud. “I-it makes me th-think of you.”

Stan didn’t sob. He didn’t convulse and shake and heave with pain. He lay quietly, blinking the tears from his eyes and held on to Bill’s hand like it was the last thing holding him to the world. “...Why?”

“Because,” Bill started, wrapping his arms around Stan so they’d be curled together, holding each other as they were always meant to be, “it’s b-beautiful, just like you. And because b-birds. You like birds so much anyth-thing with birds r-r-reminds me of you.” He brushed away Stan’s tears as he spoke, careful to be as gentle as he possibly could.

“And,” Threading his fingers through Stan’s curls, “I know wh-wh-what you think of yours-s-self. That you’re b-broken. That your heart is frozen s-s-solid. That you don’t deserve love a-and that you c-c-can’t feel it. But  _ I _ know th-that’s bullshit. Maybe you are s-sorta fucked--- I say th-that in the m-most loving w-way possible--- but you’re s-still  _ full _ of love, Stanny. You g-g-give that love to everyo-one.” He bent his head just enough to place a kiss on Stan’s forehead and felt the shudder that ran through Stan but made no comment. “Especially your b-b-birds.”

Reaching up, Stan wrapped his hands around Bill’s forearms to hold him close and laughed. It barely sounded like a laugh--- too soaked with tears to be joyous and too incredibly devoid of humor--- but Bill knew all the same, it was a laugh as much as Stan could laugh.

“Th-thank you, Billy.” His eyes were closed but he managed to find and lead Bill down to his lips for a kiss all the same. “Thank you, my bird.”


End file.
